


Teeth

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Soul Eater
Genre: Blow Jobs, Dubious Consent, Earrings, First Time, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-05
Updated: 2013-10-05
Packaged: 2017-12-28 12:34:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,396
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/992054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“When the weight across his body drags Giriko up to alertness and he sits up, he very nearly breaks Justin’s nose.” Justin knows what he wants and gets it. Giriko doesn’t get much say in the matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teeth

Giriko wakes up with Justin on top of him.

He doesn’t remember what he was dreaming about, which is probably for the best; his dreams tend to be darkened memories from lost lives, patchwork creations of too many years alive and too much need for revenge, and the memories upon waking are almost always worse than the experience of them while unconscious. They do tend to make him jumpy, though; generally he wakes up all at once, jerking awake and up in bed, and when the weight across his body drags him up to alertness and he sits up, he very nearly breaks Justin’s nose.

There is a moment of panic before his eyes adjust; Giriko is settling into his combat wavelength before he recognizes the blond hair and the wide, pale eyes. Even then he almost goes through with it anyway. It would be satisfying, soothe away the embarrassment of his panicked rise to consciousness and avoid the questions that are surfacing. But Justin dodged backward from impact with his forehead, arched his back away like gravity just doesn’t quite affect him like it should, and those questions are coming up faster than the rage as confusion dampens Giriko’s desire for a fight.

“What are you  _doing_?” he hisses. His mouth, at least, is unaffected by the frantic adrenaline that is holding him still, and the words come out so rough-edged they would draw blood if they were corporeal.

Justin smiles into the darkness, his teeth a white gash across the shadows of his face, and leans in so close that Giriko subsides towards the bed, unwilling to draw so near when all the animal instinct of his brain says “rabid.”

“Giriko.” His name sounds strange in Justin’s throat, the short vowels pulled long and appreciative against the priest’s vocal chords, and it’s not until Justin puts his hand on Giriko’s shoulder and pushes him down to the bed that the older man realizes that the usual volume of Justin’s speech is down to nearly a whisper. Giriko’s heart is thudding faster than it ever has in this body, so hard he is sure Justin can feel it under his palm, but the priest is still smiling that terrifying smile and Giriko is finding it difficult to straighten his thoughts enough to decide what to do next.

With his back now against the bed there is nowhere for Giriko to flinch to when Justin leans in, close enough for his nose to brush Giriko’s cheek, close enough that his breath skims against Giriko’s throat, and for a single moment of entire insanity Giriko thinks the priest might be about to rip his throat out with his bare teeth. It’s that instinct again, taking over the situation because his humanity doesn’t know how to deal with this, but for the first time in his life Giriko is choosing flight over fight and there is nowhere for him to go.

There isn’t pain, just the brush of skin to skin against Giriko’s pulse point, along his jugular, and finally his human brain kicks in and says that Justin is  _kissing_  him before promptly fading out with no further explanation.

“I  _like_  you,” Justin murmurs into Giriko’s shoulder, that same oddly low volume, and the motion of his mouth brings the edge of his teeth scraping against Giriko’s throat and the adrenaline in Giriko’s veins is thinking about doing something else, now that death appears to be  _slightly_  less imminent, and Giriko tries very very hard to not notice the strength of Justin’s fingers gripping tight against his arms or the pressure of the priest’s hips lined up over his. “You are  _interesting_. Alone. Like me.”

Justin shifts his hold on Giriko’s far shoulder, lets his arm go in favor of trailing his hand down the older man’s ribcage, and Giriko can move his arm now and should be able to shove Justin off or take a chainsaw to his pretty face or do  _something_ , but he is as frozen as if paralyzed by Arache’s spider webs.

Justin’s breath gusts against the curve of Giriko’s ear, a sigh unmistakably lined with pleasure, and there is a clink loud from proximity of teeth against metal as he catches an earring, slides his tongue through the loop. Giriko shivers, he can’t help it, and Justin laughs very softly. Giriko can feel the vibration buzz through the metal, hum in his hearing, and all that adrenaline decides what it will do without his permission. He stares up at the dark ceiling unseeing, vision going foggy with the onslaught of desire in his stolen blood, and Justin lets the earring go and rocks back on his heels, pressing his weight into Giriko’s rising erection.

“Just like me,” he purrs. His fingers are pressed into the skin of Giriko’s arm, his free hand seeking for the bottom edge of the chainsaw’s shirt, and he isn’t holding particularly hard, and he is as light as a girl, and Giriko is  _more_  than strong enough to just force his way free, why can’t he  _move_?

Fingers slide under the hem of the shirt, stripe lines of heat as they trail back up over the chainsaw’s stomach. Giriko huffs a breath of surprise, the air hot in his mouth before he frees it into the air, and Justin angles his hips in some fashion that Giriko doesn’t understand and doesn’t have the blood to think about right now.

“Aren’t you a  _priest_?” he offers. It’s a weak comeback, and it sounds alarmingly breathy instead of affronted and angry as he wants it to, but Justin just laughs, the sound oddly high, chiming like bells for all that it’s barely loud enough to hear.

“Oh yes,” he says. The words are drenched in amusement, weighted with obscene pleasure, and now Giriko is wondering if this isn’t some Kishin-wrought delusion, if he hasn’t finally snapped after eight hundred years of lonely rage. Justin drags his fingers down again the skin of his chest, curling his fingers so his nails pull sharp against Giriko’s skin, and the older man hisses in pain and decides that a fantasy wouldn’t be so terrifying, that nothing in the very worst of his nightmares has been anything like as bone-deep frightening as the glassy blue of Justin’s eyes in the shadows.

The priest shifts back, slides his hips down so he’s over Giriko’s thighs instead of his groin, and if he weren’t still frozen in place Giriko would sit up and  _drag_  him back to where he was. But he is, and while he’s trying to will movement back into his limbs Justin lets his arm go and brings his left hand down to the front of Giriko’s pants.

Giriko makes a sound that tears at the back of his throat before it escapes, and finally is able to regain control of his arms enough to push himself up onto his elbows.

“Fuck, you are really a freak, aren’t you?” he manages. It’s a weak insult. It’s hard to think straight with Justin staring at him like that; he’s pretty sure the younger man hasn’t blinked in a couple of minutes, and that smile hasn’t changed except that he’s now caught his lower lip between his teeth, red pressing against the line of shining white, and Giriko can’t quite look away.

“Oh,” he says, and “ _yes_ ,” and  _then_  he blinks, slow slow slow and Giriko can see the white-blond of his eyelashes cast dark by the night shadows and his mouth goes entirely dry.

“Uh,” he manages, intelligibly, and then Justin’s fingers make it past his waistband and he hadn’t noticed that his pants were open and fingers wrap hot around him and he shuts his eyes, the instinct of pleasure outweighing the instinct screaming to NOT LOOK AWAY from the predator. Giriko’s own hands are larger than normal, he knows -- he’s been able to get his fingers entirely around someone’s skull before -- but Justin’s are small, his fingers significantly more precise in their movements than Giriko has ever achieved himself, and quite aside from his dexterity the  _novelty_  of someone else’s touch is enough to sweep all conscious thought from Giriko’s mind for a minute.

When he blinks darkness back into his eyes he has fallen back on the bed, is staring blindly at the ceiling, and has entirely lost track of the other person in the room. Justin blinks at him when he looks down to where the younger man is perched over his legs, and when the priest smiles it is slow as honey and it doesn’t touch those eyes at all.

“I’m glad you approve,” he murmurs, and then he slides farther down Giriko’s legs and dips his head and Giriko reaches to stop him because really he doesn’t want those teeth  _anywhere_  near --

Justin’s tongue slides across the head of his cock and Giriko groans, arm forgotten in midair, and his hips come off the bed toward that mouth with absolutely no decision on his part. He  _really_  needs to get better control over these bodies, they have an alarming tendency to disregard his mental commands. There’s got to be some sort of disconnect, he’ll have to investigate that further when he’s not in  _serious_  danger of being killed or eaten or possibly pleasured to death by an insane priest.

Justin looks up at him through his feather eyelashes and even with his mouth open and rather occupied he manages to grin again, Kishin-wide, and then he wraps his lips around Giriko’s cock and there is no pain at all, just the pressure of teeth behind his lips, and this is playing with fire but Giriko is suspecting that his self-preservation is broken and it’s been hard to care about anything beyond the next few minutes for years, and he stops fighting entirely. He drops back on one elbow; he could lie back entirely, but the ceiling is poor substitute for watching Justin suck him off like it’s his job, and every third or fourth time the priest’s head dips down he looks up and Giriko can  _feel_  the corners of his mouth tighten into almost-a-smile. He’s still wearing his fucking robes too, Giriko realizes, the white cross clear in the dark, and he hasn’t undressed at all and that’s really just adding to the whole scene, Justin so clearly the priest he is and Giriko doesn’t know what sort of vows he did or did not take but he’s damn fucking sure this isn’t included in the description.

With his weight on one elbow Giriko’s other hand is free; he reaches out without thinking, cups his palm around the curve of Justin’s head and brushes his fingers against the back of his neck. Ostensibly he could steady the younger man, or force his head down if he really wanted, but Justin half-laughs around Giriko at the contact and the vibrations run straight through every nerve ending the chainsaw possesses. There’s not really anything he wants to change, anyway; Justin is very nearly going  _too_  fast, if anything, pressing with his tongue and lips and the back of his  _throat_ , occasionally, so the sensation is bordering right up on painful without ever  _quite_  crossing over.

 _He would be a great weapon-partner with those instincts_ , some deeply repressed part of Giriko’s mind offers. He hisses, angry with himself, and his fingers tighten against the downy yellow of Justin’s hair. The priest looks back up, and the sultry pleasure is gone and there is a sharp edge of warning in his gaze, and Giriko’s fingers go slack without his intention. This is worrying, in itself, but then Justin slides his tongue all along the length of Giriko’s cock, a jolt of sensation in addition to the rest, and the concern is deftly set aside for future consideration.

The world is getting fuzzy at the edges, proper black creeping in, and Giriko’s not sure if he’s going to pass out or have a stroke or just straight die but he is way past the point of caring, he can get another body if he needs to anyway and this one is rushing blindly towards whatever physical resolution it can find. He’s not speaking, not coherently, but his exhales are sounding more and more like ragged moans in the silence of the night and Justin’s hair is soft against his palm and the priest’s tongue is really doing  _outrageous_  things and then Justin angles forward, and Giriko hits the back of his throat and it’s the  _sight_  of Justin curled over him and of his hand against the other weapon’s hair that shoves him over the edge as much as the sensation.

He doesn’t blink, doesn’t press his eyes shut against the encroaching darkness of orgasm, but his mind still checks out for a moment or two, so when he comes back the scene has skipped forward a handful of frames. Justin’s looking at him, that smiling tension against his lips, and as soon as Giriko’s eyes refocus he brings his head up, deliberately slowly, dragging his lips as he moves so Giriko’s spine shocks with echoes of pleasure. Then he’s free, or Giriko’s free -- he’s not sure which of them was more the prisoner but he’s pretty sure it wasn’t Justin. The priest swallows, so slowly that Giriko is sure it is on purpose so he can watch the muscles work just above the white collar, and he brings one of his narrow hands up to his face to wipe his mouth.

“That was  _fun_ ,” he finally says, smiling with all his teeth. When he leans in towards Giriko the chainsaw doesn’t even try to pull away, just stares at him in petrified curiosity. The younger man sweeps sideways, catches the edge of Giriko’s earlobe in his mouth again, sucks at the skin so the metal of his earrings clink together for just a minute. Giriko can hear him laugh, very softly, against his ear when he lets go, can feel the breathy “Let’s do it again,”against his skin more than he can feel it. Then Justin twists off the bed, oddly lithe as he was before, and lets himself out of the room without looking back.

It is several seconds before Giriko starts to shake, and even then he’s not sure if it’s panic or pleasure in his veins.


End file.
